


How to Build A Criminal Empire

by steelebird



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Grand Theft Auto Setting, Fake AH Crew, Los Santos, M/M, Pre-OT6 - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-16
Updated: 2015-03-23
Packaged: 2018-03-18 04:11:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3555560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/steelebird/pseuds/steelebird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Geoff wants to ensure his debut in Los Santos kicks off with a bang, and partnering with Mogar definitely delivers.  He’s more than a little enamored with his fiery new crew member, but dealing with Michael’s menacing ex-mentor proves to be a bit of a roadblock.  Geoff may be making one hell of a name for himself, but everyone in this city has heard of the Vagabond.</p><p>GTA V AU.  Rating will likely increase.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Phase One

Geoff had built his criminal empire through brute force and a few back doors (both literal and figurative).  He hadn’t stayed in the army long, but he knew how to observe people, and a few years of watching how officers handled their enlisted units taught him a lot about leadership.  Even almost a decade later, he still chuckled at how much of his criminal success stemmed from his military education.  It certainly served him in good stead when he first arrived in Los Santos to start laying the groundwork for what would become a major takeover.

Admittedly things would have been easier from the outset if he’d let slip about his past activities in Liberty City, but Geoff wanted Los Santos to be a fresh start.  He would make his name on his own terms with the people he chose; using his old reputation as a claim to fame would only stir up distant connections.  And in the crime business, a connection was only worth the favors they could do for you.  Here on the other side of the country, his Liberty acquaintances weren’t good for much.  It’s as he finally reaches the city limits and gets his first glimpse of the Los Santos skyline that Geoff decides he’s better off _showing_ the city what he can do.

He starts small, a necessary evil with a one-person crew.  His base is a ratty apartment that he knows is overpriced.  He could easily afford better, but this is where he needs to be right now, below the radar.  He plans each job alone, selecting small targets that would typically be beneath his notice, and his careful research ensures they pay off.  He learns what days the convenience stores make their bank deposits so he can hit them the day before while the registers are still full.  He keeps his hands clean of the thriving drug trade, but notes which distributers have made the mistake of trusting pushers who are more interested in sampling the goods then selling them.  And he begins looking for his future crew, the people who will help him run the city when everything is in place.  Geoff’s always had a love for drama, and he’s not stepping onto the stage until he knows he can give a show-stopping, five star performance.  It’s going to take more than just one person.

An unfortunate fact of coming to a new city is that Geoff doesn’t really know anyone, but he’s got an idea of where to get some recommendations.  It’s quickly apparent that no one gets anywhere without talking to Jack at some point.  Geoff bides his time before contacting him, running a string of pretty spectacular (false modesty can go fuck itself) convenience and corner store heists that culminate in a fast and dirty strike on an armored truck.  As Geoff trundles down a back road in the stolen truck after almost an hour of dodging cops, he turns on the police tuner and gleefully listens to the chaos as the LSPD collectively shits its pants.  Then he pulls out his phone and dials Jack’s number.

Jack answers on the first ring, always an encouraging sign.  It’s safe to assume that Jack knows who’s calling, and it’s obvious word has reached him about Geoff’s recent activities.

“Hi there, Geoff,” comes a surprisingly amiable voice.  “I’m guessing you managed to shake off the heat if you have time for a leisurely drive through the backwoods of Raton Canyon.”  So he knows Geoff’s location, most likely from his cell phone in spite of the standard security software Geoff employs.  At least he knows he’s not wasting his time.

“It’s nice to finally put a voice to name, Jack,” Geoff answers as he pulls beneath an old railway bridge and puts the car in park.  “I hear you’re the guy to talk to when things get lonely in Los Santos.”  Jack’s laugh is warm, a far cry from the usual snake-in-the grass white collar types who pride themselves on being above it all.

“I mean, there are probably a lot of ladies hanging around the boardwalk who would look a lot prettier in a dress, but I do make the effort to be accommodating.”  Geoff lets out a genuine chuckle in response.

“No way, I bet you're the envy of the catwalk.  But if you’re not available, I was hoping you could put me in touch with some people who might be looking for work.”  It’s time to put his business on the table, and Geoff leans back in the driver’s seat and watches the sunset through the bullet-riddled windshield, mind racing.  He has to be careful with what he asks for.  Jack answered the phone, which means he’s willing to listen, but asking for too big a favor is a fast-track to getting his number blocked.  Despite all his recent success, Geoff is still an unknown.

“I need some start-up family,” he said bluntly.  Jack hums thoughtfully in response. 

“If it’s muscle you’re looking for, I wouldn’t think you’d need my help finding it.  Los Santos is full of gangbangers.” 

Geoff snorts.  “Yeah, and if I ever want to take a vacation behind bars I’ll be sure to give them a ring.  I need some people with brains to keep the brawn in line.”  It’s a good middle ground for Jack to get a feel for dealing with Geoff.  Giving him some experienced people will let Jack see if Geoff is going to be a worthwhile investment.  It also gives Geoff more time to build the reputation necessary to start attracting more serious attention.

“The diamonds in the rough, huh?  They can be risky, especially since the good ones usually know they’re good.  You’re asking to be stabbed in the back if you can’t keep them in hand,” Jack warns.  As if Geoff didn’t know that.  “What sort of skills were you looking for?”

“Languages, scouting, and a sniper.  At least Spanish and Portuguese for the first, and not some desk jockey that panics in a firefight.  I’m all ears for recommendations on the scout as long as they know Los Santos and aren’t fucking dumb.  But the real money is for the sniper.  I don’t care what they’ve priced themselves at, but I want the best, and I want them long term.  If they aren’t cool with actually joining I’m open to a contract.”  It’s closer to a wish list than anything, but Geoff wants to see what this Jack guy can come up with. 

The sound of keys clattering in the background is so cliché that Geoff can’t resist rolling his eyes.  He climbs out of the seat while he waits, walking around to the back of the truck and yanking open the doors, but quickly snaps to attention at Jack’s small but audible _aha_.  “What?  You got somebody?”

“Two somebodies,” Jack answers smugly.  “I might even be doing you a favor.  Consider it a customer appreciation perk to commemorate our first deal.  You can get your scout pretty much for free if you’re willing to do some, ah, extraction.  Caleb Denecour - his contract is up with the Balla crew in Davis, but they were pretty pissed at having to give up their information source.  He’s been laying low, but clean house a bit so he can pop his little head up without someone putting a bullet in it, and he’s yours.” Geoff doesn’t see a downside to adding another neighborhood to his territory and getting a free employee out of it, so he quickly agrees to have Jack put them in touch.

“What about the rest?”

“The interpreter is going to be less tricky, but more expensive.  Lindsay Tuggey has all the languages you need plus some and a 94% accuracy rating with multiple sidearms.  The downside is she only does three-month contracts on a renewable basis.  Payment is in full before she starts, and the contract is void if you die, no transfers.” 

Geoff considers this for a little longer than he did with Denecour, stalling for time as he transfers bags of cash from the truck to his waiting Banshee sports car.  Paying for three months at once would be a sizeable chunk of change, but the contract caveat isn’t really a problem.  He doesn’t have a second-in-command to take over for him if shit hits the fan.  “Alright, let’s try it out.  If it doesn’t work out after three months I’ll call you back.”

“Good,” Jack answers, and Geoff is a little surprised by the satisfaction in his tone, like he actually enjoys untangling the knots of the city’s crime connections to tie new strands together.  “The sniper though… I hate to say this Geoff, but you might need to put that on hold for now.  I have a few guys who do single-hits, but rehiring them repeatedly would get pretty damn expensive, assuming they’d even be interested.  I can try to pitch it, but…”  It’s clear he isn’t hopeful, and Geoff really doesn’t have any interest in doing things sub-par.

“It’s fine Jack; just keep an eye out, yeah?”  Jack promises he will, and to expect calls from Denecour and Tuggey within the week before hanging up.  Geoff tosses his cellphone into the passenger seat and takes the scenic route back into the city.

\--

Lindsay is a pleasant surprise, although Geoff isn’t sure what he was expecting.  Geoff notices her as soon as she walks into the restaurant, her red hair flashing in the light, and their eyes meet briefly before she tactfully takes a seat at an empty table several feet away.  He appreciates the courtesy of letting him determine how best to approach her; most amateurs would simply drop down in front of him, or worse, attempt to pass notes from an adjacent table.  However, Geoff had chosen their meeting place with care, and he carries his whiskey over to join her, flagging a waiter as he goes.

Once Lindsay has a drink of her own, they get straight to business.  Her rate is steep but not unmanageable, and Geoff sort of admires her unyielding but polite demeanor.  He was definitely getting the impression that picking a fight with her would be more trouble than it’s worth, which made it likely she’d whip any new recruits into shape with ease.  After about twenty minutes of straight talk, they toast to their new business relationship, and Geoff poses a question that begins the next phase of his preparations.

“Know anyone that’s good with explosives?”

Lindsay slants a look at him as she sips her drink, considering the question.  There are a lot of people in Los Santos who enjoy setting things on fire, but Lindsay is smart.  She knows he’s looking for someone with skills.  It’s especially essential that his explosives expert _be_ an expert; there’s no one who could kill them all quicker than a sloppy bomb-maker.  It’s a tall order, one he hadn’t been willing to put in front of Jack just yet, but polling his new employees might give him a lead.

“I know you’re pretty flush since you barely blinked at my contract figure.  So if you’re willing to put down some serious cash, you’d get your money’s worth out of Mogar.”  The name is completely unfamiliar to Geoff, and he doesn’t mind telling her so.  Lindsay tuts at his ignorance, then shrugs.  “It’s a bit of a moot point right now anyways.  No offense Geoffers, but I don’t know that he’d accept an offer from you at the moment.”  He knows it’s a fair point, but it stings a bit to hear.  Still, he’s got plenty of time to give this Mogar a reason to take Geoff seriously.

The next day, they meet at the warehouse that will serve as their temporary base and he puts Lindsay straight to work heading up what he’d cheerfully described as a “meet and greet.”  She’d trawl through a few well-known hangouts in the boroughs and begin spreading the word about a new guy recruiting.  A few people would probably try to start a pissing contest and she’d put them in the dirt, helping to jumpstart the interest of onlookers.  Her expression tells Geoff she isn’t fooled or impressed by his rebranding, but makes no comment except to ask,

“And what gang am I representing, exactly?  Your moustache game is only going to carry you so far with these guys.  They’ll want a name.”  Geoff ponders this, not willing to admit that of all his carefully planning, the goddamned _name_ of his new empire had been overlooked.  Glancing around the warehouse for inspiration, he spots a stack of Xbox games he’d brought to entertain himself when he needed to stay over.  On the top is a copy of _Grand Theft Auto: Vice City_.  He’d played it a few times and enjoyed it, although it seemed unlikely the franchise would ever really take off.  A sticker pasted to the cover read “ACHIEVEMENT GUIDE INCLUDED”.  And what was he in Los Santos for except to achieve things?  He was a motherfucking achievement _hunter_.  He looked from the game back to Lindsay.

“Tell them the AH Crew has come to Los Santos baby,” he grins.

The drama of the moment is ruined when she informs him there is already an AH Gang running a few small towns farther north.  Geoff swears a blue streak then grouses, “Fine, fuckin’ Fake AH Crew, now get the fuck out.”

\--

With Lindsay well on her way to getting them some foot soldiers, Geoff turns his attention to the slightly stickier problem of uprooting a rival gang with almost no reliable backup.  This Delecour kid had better know his shit, he thinks to himself as he stocks a four-door Asterope with several automatics and enough ammo to render anyone who even looks at him funny into swiss cheese. 

As far as one-man extraction teams go, Geoff does pretty well for himself.  It helps that Caleb texts him the address of his “safe” house, deep in Balla territory, which allows Geoff to casually pull up out front and knock on the door while clutching a tote bag, looking for all the world like a friend just dropping by.  The kid who opens the door looks like he’s about to have some sort of nervous fit, but Geoff guesses that living in constant fear for your life will do that to you.  He wastes no time, pushing into the house and shutting the door quickly behind him.

“Oh er, Mr. Ramsey, umm…”  Christ is it painful listening to this kid trip over his tongue, and Geoff cuts him off with a curt “We’ll do introductions later kid, when we’re not waiting to get shot at.”  That shuts Caleb up pretty quick, and Geoff pulls out a Kevlar vest from his bag and stuffs Caleb into it.  The boy looks suspiciously at the letters LSPD painted onto the front in white.  Geoff notices the scrutiny.

“I borrowed it off I cop I ran into a few weeks ago.  He didn’t need in anymore.”

Caleb looks horrified instead of reassured.  “You mean someone’s already died in this?!”  Geoff ignores him in favor of reassembling and loading two automatic rifles.  He hands one to Caleb with the stern warning not accidentally shoot him.  Although Caleb still looks pale and shaky, his grip on the weapon speaks of familiarity, and he doesn’t commit the rookie sin of resting his finger on the trigger.  It’s good enough for Geoff.

“Okay, here’s the plan.  My car is out front, and it’s fast as shit.  We’re keeping it simple.  When I give you the go-ahead, you run your skinny ass to the car and get in the back seat.  Lay down on the footbed and keep your face away from the windows until I get us moving.  Do not fire your gun and attract attention.  Do not trip and shoot anything, especially my car.  Or me.  With luck, we’ll be back in my neighborhood before they even realize you’re missing, and then I can come back and wrap things up.”

Caleb nods.  The prospect of getting the fuck out of Davis seems to have given him a desperate resolve.  Geoff slings his empty tote bag across his chest and walks to the door to check the street.  He’s met with the unpleasant sight of a bright purple car with _Balla_ detailed on the side rolling slowly past  He waits until it finally turns the corner, then looks at Caleb.  “Ready?  Okay.  One… two… _three_ ,” and yanks the door open.

Caleb bolts with Geoff hot on his heels and they fling themselves into the Asterope, Caleb literally swan diving through the open rear window to land in the back with a thud.  Geoff cranks the ignition and the engine roars to life.  They peal out of the driveway with a screech of rubber and make it almost three blocks before two purple sedans appear in the rearview mirror, coming up fast.  Apparently Caleb’s old crew had a fair idea of where he’d been hiding out.  Several bullets lodge in the rear windshield, and Geoff’s gratitude for the shatterproof coating is renewed.  In retaliation he fires somewhat blindly out the window, and Caleb takes the hint and joins in with much more precise results.  One of the pursuing cars veers violently and skids off into someone’s yard.  Geoff nearly follows their example when two more purple vehicles appear ahead and force him into an emergency turn-off through some bushes to cut over to the next street.

With three cars holding at least four people each following them, Geoff’s rear window is getting peppered with bullets and looks about ready to give out.

“Caleb,” he shouts over the _ping_ of bullets grazing the car’s frame, “hand me up the red bag by your feet!”

Caleb digs through the small armory that Geoff has stockpiled in the car and yanks free a red canvas drawstring bag with a stick of dynamite crudely drawn on in Sharpie.  His look as he hands the bag to Geoff is that of a man who knows he may have just fucked himself.  Geoff keeps one hand of the wheel and uses the other and his teeth to open the bag and pull out a sticky bomb.  They were expensive as fuck, but worth it if he was careful with his aim.  Plus, you know, not being dead helped balance the cost.

They skid around a corner onto Grove Street, and finally there’s a few hundred feet of straight-away.  “Lean up here and hold the wheel steady,” Geoff orders Caleb.  He doesn’t wait to see if Caleb obeys before stretching out of the driver seat, his right foot pinning the gas pedal to the floor as he pushes out his torso out of the window and twists around to look behind him.  A bullet goes whizzing past his head, and Geoff wastes no time in flinging the stick bomb directly on the hood of the nearest purple car.

The result is even more spectacular than he could have hoped.  The car ignites immediately, the doors on the left side completely blown away, and the panicked driver swerves in front of the other two.  Driving in such a tight formation leaves no room to maneuver and they all slam together in a delicious screech of metal.  It’s difficult for Geoff to tear his eyes away, but he settles back into the driver seat and keeps his foot on the gas.  Caleb has clambered forward into the passenger seat and gives Geoff a manic smile that has an edge of hysteria, but he keeps his cool.  Geoff can respect that.

Twenty minutes later, they pull into the warehouse.  Caleb helps Geoff unload all the guns and restore them to their various crates, and Geoff shows him the cot, television, and Xbox 360 set up behind a particularly tall stack of boxes in some semblance of privacy.  It’s summer, so Caleb will be okay kipping out here for a while until Geoff finds him a better place to work from.  Keeping a finger on the pulse of the city, it turns out, actually requires being in the city, Caleb informs him.  Geoff tells him to shut the fuck up, intentionally steps on his shoelaces when they both stand, and hands him a cell phone programmed with Geoff’s and Lindsay’s numbers before getting into his Banshee and driving home.

\--

Geoff lets a week go by for Caleb to settle in before he calls their first meeting as a crew.  Lindsay gives him a rundown of the people she’s met on the streets and her impressions of them, which Caleb supplements with whatever gossip he’s heard.  Between the three of them they organize two groups of thirty.  The one with the majority of the muscle will go to Lindsay, and she promises to work them into the ground and have them begging for more.  The braniacs of group are handed to Caleb to act as lookouts and intel.

Once their most pressing business is sorted, the three of them relax for a bit in Caleb’s pathetic excuse for a living room/bedroom/house.  Geoff hunkers down on a box of grenades with a beer and watches the other two tear each other apart in Halo for an hour or two before getting their attention.

“I’ve been thinking about what we’re going to do for our first big hit.”  Caleb immediately pauses the game and they both turn to look at him from their spots on the floor.  “The problem right now is with the Ballas.  I don’t think it would be smart to start anything until our business with them is finished, and I think the solution would be to send them a very direct, fiery message.”  Lindsay already knows where he’s going with this and doesn’t answer, but Caleb ponders the issue for a minute.

“I’ve heard about a guy called Mogar,” he says slowly.  Caleb can’t see, but Lindsay shots Geoff a smug, I-told-you-so look.  “But he’s… well, he’s pretty top notch.  And I mean, as far as I know he doesn’t have any real beef with the Ballas, so blowing them all sky-high won’t really be doing him any favors or get you any discounts.”

Geoff is staring at Caleb, specifically his forehead, but he isn’t seeing him as he considers this information.  “You know,” he says suddenly while Caleb scrubs self-consciously at his face, “that’s twice now that I’ve been told that this Mogar is guy is real hot shit.  But I haven’t seen squat to prove it.”  He finishes his beer before continuing.  “I think I’ll need a bit of a demonstration before I start cracking open any piggybanks for his sake.  Tell me everything you know about him.” 

They obey, but even with Caleb’s resources it doesn’t amount to much.  For all his fame, Mogar doesn’t seem to have much of a stake in the city’s turf wars, choosing his jobs regardless of past clients.  Caleb makes the observation that he seems to select hits based on how much destruction the job calls for.  “He loves his C4; gets a weekly delivery smuggled in from down south at the docks.  It must cost an ass-load, but I guess he uses it.”

In Geoff’s mind a light bulb flickers on.  It’s too much of a golden opportunity to pass up.

“I’m going to steal that C4.” 

His tone makes it clear that he’s not asking for their input on the plan, but Caleb still blurts out an alarmed “What!?”  Geoff fixes him with a lazy stare that quickly cows his outrage, but not enough to silence him completely.

“Geoff, listen,” he pleads.  “I know you want to get things moving, but stealing Mogar’s supply is guaranteed to bring him down on us, and not in the sexy way.”  Geoff reaches into the cooler by his side and throws an ice cube at Caleb, who shrieks when it hits his face.

“For the sake of your twisted panties, Caleb, I’ll clarify.  I am going to steal that C4 and deliver it to the doorstep of the Ballas.  I’ll even play dress up, I look pretty good in purple.  If Mogar has two brain cells to rub together it will be easy for him to track where his goods went.  He needs his stuff back, we could use a hand putting a solid dent in the confidence of the Ballas.  Sounds like a win-win to me.”  Caleb still doesn’t look convinced, but Geoff shakes him off.

Lindsay gives Geoff a once over, ignoring the manly pose he strikes for her benefit.  “Well Geoff, as much as I respect a man in a suit, I don’t know that buying a purple version is going to convince anyone.” 

Caleb sighs as it becomes clear there will be no deterring Geoff.  “I’ll take care of that,” he grumps.  “I still have some of my old clothes, they should work from a distance.  When are you doing this?”  Geoff looks at his phone.  Ten p.m.

“Tonight,” he decides.  “Right now.  Thursday evening, the docks will be empty except for security by now, and since nothing gets unloaded until Friday morning it should be easy to sniff out some explosives while they’re still in one place.”  They all get to work, and the immediate compliance of his small team reassures Geoff that he made a good call with these two.

Caleb helps his with his “disguise,” yanking on Geoff’s jeans to give him the classic gangster waddle with his boxers sticking out, then ties a purple bandana around his head using some secret knot bullshit that Geoff decides right then will not be making a debut in his crew.

“Are you sure you don’t want to lose the moustache, Geoff,” Caleb asks nervously for the second time as Geoff tucks a pistol in the small of his back where this ridiculous basketball jersey and purple hoodie will cover it.  “It’s pretty distinctive…”

“Caleb, my moustache senses evil intent, and I will let it strangle you if you make any sudden moves towards my face.”

The last step it stealing a purple truck with a strong enough frame to carry several hundred pounds of explosive clay.  Lindsay takes care of this while Geoff dresses.  Snagging a sniper rifle for scouting purposes, Geoff climbs up into the truck and gives them a jaunty wave as he disappears into the darkness.

The docks are on the other side of the city and the commute takes Geoff about forty minutes since he’s trying to be inconspicuous and actually obey traffic laws (and God it’s so _boring_ living like this, even for less than an hour).  There’s an apartment building with an empty parking lot across the road from the docks, and Geoff pulls into a space.  He’s crossing the street to assess the best way to climb the fence protecting the cargo when a shout stops him in his tracks.

“Hey you!  Facial hair!”  Geoff pauses on the sidewalk and turns.  Across the street but quickly jaywalking towards him are four bulky men wearing matching purple baseball caps.  When they’re close enough to see clearly, Geoff realizes they can’t be more than twenty-two or so, but they certainly outclass him by several dozen pounds.

The apparent leader is a tall kid who eyes Geoff’s sweatshirt and tennis shoes skeptically before fixing on the bandana tied around his head.  After a brief moment of examination, his expression suddenly clears, and he gives Geoff a grin that glints gold.

“Aw fuck, man, Grove Street brother going for a walk on the beach?” He laughs at his own joke and offers a fist bump that Geoff hesitantly returns, silently promising to give Caleb some sort of bonus for being so thorough with his getup.

“Yeah, you know dude, somebody’s gotta be the asshole running errands,” he gripes, settling into his usual slouched posture.  “I didn’t think any of the crew would be hanging this far out.”  That at least is truthful enough.  The guy gives another boisterous guffaw that echoes in the empty street and makes Geoff want to cringe.  He refrains though, instead joining in with a more reserved laugh.

“No fucking kidding man, there’s fuck all to do out here.  Not like central Davis where all those pretty bitches like to hang.  What the hell are you doing, keepin’ ladies waitin’?” 

Geoff gets an idea that might just be the best he’s ever had if it doesn’t get him shot.

“Man, sure as hell not by choice, I’m being fuckin’ run into the ground.  You probably heard about that son of a bitch who got the drop on some of our boys last week, wrecked three cars.”  They all nod and respond with various curses and threats.  “There’s been trouble keeping up with biz with so many people out, so here I am playing delivery boy for the boss.” Geoff can see the gears turning in their heads, and they give each other meaningful looks that Geoff pretends not to see.  Finally the leader speaks up.

“Listen bro,” he says, leaning forward like he’s getting ready to impart some big secret.  Geoff obligingly does the same.  “We’re fuckin’ tired of walking in loops around the docks.  What you say to us givin’ you a hand, and then maybe you tell the guys on Grover that K-Slick and his guys helped you out.”

It’s hard to keep a straight face at the way their complete stupidity fills Geoff with delight, but he manages.  “Thanks man, I’ll be sure to tell the boss that his port-side brothers did him a solid,” he tells K-Slick (does he even want to know the origin story behind that name?), and they grasp each other’s hands and chest bump like goddamn high-schoolers.  Although to be fair, at least two of them look like they’re still school-age.

With his helpful posse of Ballas in tow, they hop the fence to the boat yard and creep stealthily through the shipping containers until Geoff spots the one labeled with the logo Caleb had described as Mogar’s favored explosives brand.  He signals to the boys behind him, and two of them get to work on the lock while a third keeps watch.  Geoff talks quietly with K-Slick, shooting the shit about guys he’s never heard of before.  As long as he nods his head and throws in the occasional “that two-faced bitch” the guy doesn’t suspect a thing, continuing uninterrupted until the lock pops open with a creak.

Geoff helps pull the heavy doors back to reveal several dozen bricks of C4 stacked neatly on a wooden pallet.  Someone lets out a low whistle, and they all turn to Geoff for instructions.

“Alright,” he says rubbing his hands together.  “My truck is the only car with the suspension needed to carry all this, but we need to load it on nice and neat to keep the weight even.  Just grab as much as you can and stay quiet.  I’m gonna climb up top and settle in with my sniper in case security gets curious.”  They all nod, real serious, before getting to work. 

Geoff hauls himself up the door to sit on the roof of the cargo container and keeps his eye to the scope of his gun, pretending to scan the dock for guards he knows won’t be bothered to leave their booth.  It’s a mark of how amateur these guys are they that don’t question how Geoff plans to snipe anything without resting the barrel on a stable surface.  So he enjoys a relaxing half hour of basking in the moonlight while the shmucks beneath him load up the truck.  When they finish they flash the headlights once, and Geoff climbs down and strolls back to the parking lot.  He shakes hands with everyone, endures a few more weird half-hugs and crass jokes from K-Slick, then climbs into the truck and drives off.  At this point he fervently hopes that Mogar is clever enough to think of checking the street cameras.  Geoff couldn’t have planned a more convincing cover for himself.

The drive from the dock back to into the heart of Davis and Baller territory is uneventful.  Occasionally people on the sidewalk dressed in purple call out greetings that Geoff casually returns, but he doesn’t stop long enough for anyone to get a clear glimpse of his face.  The apartment complex that serves as the base of Balla operations is easy to find, and since Geoff makes no effort to approach the building entrance, no one stops him or questions his presence. 

Parking the truck in the side alley is a piece of cake, and Geoff walks a few blocks until he’s near the freeway before taking a public bus to the subway station north entrance where he ducks straight into a bathroom.  He leaves the bandana and purple hoodie hanging on the back of a stall door and then leaves from the west exit where Lindsay is waiting on her bike.  Flashing her a thumbs-up, he hops on back.  The drive back to Geoff’s high-rise is silent, Lindsay focused on weaving through traffic while Geoff giddily replays his the last two hours in his mind.  They say goodnight on the curb, and Lindsay disappears into traffic while Geoff enters his building, exhausted but satisfied with a job well done.

The next morning Geoff drops onto the sofa to watch the news while he enjoys his third coffee of the day (but the first one he’s actually awake enough to taste).  He flips the channel to CNT and sloshes most of the cup’s contents into his lap when his hand jerks in surprise. 

The live report shows an aerial view of the apartment block where Geoff had abandoned his stolen truck last night.  A bright red banner runs along the bottom of the screen: _POLICE INVESTIGATE EXPLOSION IN DAVIS – ATTACK ATTRIBUTED TO GANG VIOLENCE_.  At some point during the ten hours that Geoff had spent sleeping off his celebratory bourbon, Mogar had clearly noticed his missing shipment and decided to do something about it.  The four-story building that Geoff had seen just yesterday had been reduced to rubble.  Not a single wall was left standing.

Geoff can feel his mouth hanging open, not sure how to feel about this development.  On the one hand, such swift and decisive retaliation dealt out by Mogar is more than a little impressive.  The most Geoff had really expected was maybe a drive-by shootout when Mogar stole his stuff back.  Instead it looked like he’d repurposed the C4 to send the Balla crew to the moon.  But…

Geoff rubs at his morning scruff as the camera view changes to a close-up of the building from ground level.  Parked in the middle of destruction is the burned-out shell of his truck, the metal twisted and brittle from exposure to intense heat.

The results of poking this particular bear may be impressive as hell, but he’s not sure what to make of the, well, _recklessness_ of the response.  No attempt to ferret out Geoff’s identity or exact connection with the Ballas – just fire and a whole lot of corpses according to the reporter.

He can’t exactly complain since it certainly solves Caleb’s, and consequently Geoff’s, problem and provides Geoff with an opening to move in his own people.  But staring at the drama playing out on the flatscreen, Geoff decides he’s going to need to know more about Mogar than just his reputation.  Psychopaths have their uses, but Geoff won’t know if he’s willing to roll the dice with this guy until he knows what kind of person he’s inviting into the AH fold.

Still, he has the answer he was looking for.  Mogar’s reputation is not at all exaggerated, and he’s more than met Geoff’s exacting professional expectations.  All that remains is for Geoff to reciprocate.

\--

Several months pass.  The waiting galls Geoff, but the time is being put to good use.  Under Lindsay’s direction (who follows the plans Geoff hands off to her) their new members have successfully robbed no less than seven convenience stores across the city.  Caleb has laid the foundation for a reliable network of club workers and corner thugs to keep an eye on things around town.  Between the three of them, the remnants of the Balla crew have been routed or absorbed, and the subsequent income has helped attract further interest from locals.  As for Geoff, his plan for the Fake AH Crew’s first big heist has been polished to a shine, and on a sunny Thursday afternoon Geoff texts Lindsay that he has a surprise and to meet him at the warehouse.

Her first words when she sees her newly painted motorcycle are not exactly the response Geoff had been hoping for.

“Why the fuck is there a ducky spray-painted on my bike?”

Geoff frowns at her tone.  “Because,” he says as he fixes her with wide-eyed stare meant to convey the beautiful sincerity of this moment, “we need to have our logo front and center for our first heist as a crew.”  In spite of the exciting news Geoff has laid before her, Lindsay’s expression doesn’t change.

“Is this meant to be a target, like one of the carnival fairs?  Is the joke that I’m asking someone to shoot at me?  Geoff, come on.  You couldn’t come up with anything a little… tougher?”  And yeah, maybe Geoff is starting to get just a touch offended.  His voice is definitely sharper than usual when he answers.

“That bullshit with splashing skulls and blood on every surface is a waste of time.  The kids who wear that stuff are just as much in awe as the people who see it, and neither of them will ever be anything but cowards when it comes down to it.  But this-” Geoff taps the image with his finger, “this will never scare anyone.  The guy who’s wearing it will have to give people a real reason to get the fuck out of the way, and he’ll remember when the heat is on that he has the guts to get shit done.”  Lindsay almost looks impressed until Geoff adds, “Real men wear pink, and real gangsters wear duckies.”

Geoff instructs her to go pick up Caleb so they can go over the plan, and when Lindsay revs the engine and pulls out of the gravel, Geoff can see her knees positioned to leave a clear view of their new logo.

Half an hour later she returns to the warehouse with Caleb in tow for their first briefing.  He dismounts from behind her with a flourish, pulling of his helmet while she parks.

“Hey Geoff!  Saw the new look, I like it.  I mean, I didn’t know toddlers were the demographic we were aiming for, but-”  Geoff cuffs him as he walks past, and Caleb cheerfully drops into a seat by the wooden work table, which Geoff has cleared for their meeting.  Lindsay takes her place next to him, and the both look at Geoff with expectation.  Geoff feels a little thrill go through him.  The beginning is here.  Fake AH is about to explode into the Los Santos big leagues.

“We’re hitting the beachside branch of the Von Crastenburg Hotel.  Last year they dropped big money to install a casino on the ground floor and have been raking in even bigger money ever since.”  Reaching under the table he pulls out several rolls of paper.  The first is an overview of the building’s floorplan and security, information which Lindsay had gladly collected since Geoff had bankrolled her on a week-long stay to take notes and report back.  He spreads the paper flat, and Caleb and Lindsay lean closer.

“Lindsay still has two more nights booked there.  Tomorrow she’s going to go play the odds with her handsome sugar daddy.” He smiles winsomely at Lindsay.  She rolls her eyes at him.

“Just take your heart pills before I pick you up Geoff.  I don’t need your decrepit ass having a heart attack from the excitement.”  Geoff does his best to look wounded as he unrolls the floorplan to the casino itself, and Lindsay adds her observations.

“These hallways connect to the kitchens and support staff offices.  Our best bet would be parking our getaway vehicle by the loading docks where the food trucks deliver and cutting through the kitchen once we have the money.  Lots of people moving around, lots of machinery to weave through – it would make pursuit difficult.”  Her finger then moves to an office located just outside the staff entrance.  “The only problem is that the security office is literally guarding the gate.”

“Fortunately for us, there is another entrance to that hallway through the private lounge for hotel guests, which is itself conveniently attached to our target.”  Geoff sighs blissfully.  “I love when they keep everything in one place.”

Colored in yellow on the plan at the far back of the slots floor are two adjacent rooms.  “This smaller room is where the tellers exchange cash for casino coins, and it has doors to both the main floor and this bigger room, which is the private lounge for hotel guests.  Lindsay’s job, since she’s an established guest and has a card key, will be to secure the lounge.  When she gets my signal, she’ll block the main entrance to the lounge to prevent security entering.  The only other way in will be through the teller booth, where I will be busy robbing them blind.  Once I have the cash I’ll enter the lounge through the teller room and barricade the door behind me, then we’ll leave through the staff entrance and haul dicks out the kitchen to the car.  At that point…”

Geoff steps away from the table and walks to the other end of the warehouse where several crates are stacked haphazardly.  Picking up the crowbar resting nearby, he cracks the lid off the topmost box and reverently lifts out the special carbines he’d ordered through a friend of Jack’s just for the occasion. Glossy black and brand new with no criminal record tied to them (yet), Geoff could probably get a boner for these guns if he thinks on them long enough.  Instead he shows them to Lindsay and Caleb, who are appropriately impressed, and returns to the plan.

“You guys have been working with the kids for a few months now.  I want you to pick the five best shots you know who can handle this.  If we put one on each of these roofs, they’ll have a good vantage of our exit route.  I want them to provide cover fire, but focus it on this far entrance to draw the cops away from our exit route.  If the cops clog up the alley behind the kitchen I’ll have sticky bombs to clear the way, but we’ll get a much better head start if we’re already on the road by the time they realize we’ve left the building.  Caleb-”

“I’ll be on the roof of the hotel with the radio and direct their fire to wherever you need it,” he answers promptly, and Geoff claps him on the shoulder.

“And don’t let them shoot me,” he directs.  Caleb grins and mutters something that sounds suspiciously like _no promises_.  Geoff gives him a warning look but continues, tracing a finger along the red lines of their carefully scouted escape route.  “Lindsay and I will take a lovely scenic drive toward Mount Josiah, although if for some reason the LSPD manages to unwedge their heads from their collective asses we might have to go all the way out to Chiliad.  Caleb, I want you and your gunners on the move as soon as we’re out of sight.  And I want their faces hidden until you’re all back here in case any looky-loo civilians catch sight of them.  Radio me when everyone is accounted for, make sure they understand to keep their mouths shut, and send them home to lay low for a few days.  Lindsay and I will chill near Paleto Cove for the night and meet you back here the next morning to divvy things up.”

He sits back and watches their faces, scanning for any signs of hesitation or doubt.  If one of them is going to dig in their heels about something, he wants to take care of it now and not when he’s been shot at.  But they both look satisfied.  Caleb has his nose close to the table to examine the fastest way to get his team down and out.  Lindsay has picked up the carbine from where Geoff had abandoned it on the tabletop and is checking the sights, posture relaxed and lips curled in an excited smile. 

Geoff feels good about this plan, about his team.  This is the first heist that will have Fake AH’s name attached to it, and it has to be dazzling.  Failure here would spell an end to the reputation that’s been simmering since Geoff started recruiting.  The city is waiting to see what he can do, and he has to make the most of their attention.  Lifting money right out of the pockets of the Von Crastenburg family is a perfect way to get their crew some publicity.  As long as it all goes to plan.

He looks at the date on his phone.  It’s Thursday night.  There’s one last thing to put into place before tomorrow.

\--

On his way home that evening Geoff stops by a local grocery store and stands in the card aisle for a good twenty minutes, evaluating the available options.  He finally settles on a nauseatingly pink card with an illustration of bears on the front and snags a Sharpie on his way to checkout.  The line is slow, so he amuses himself by decorating the card front and interior.  The cashier is not impressed, but he pays the whole three fucking dollars, so she doesn’t say anything.

Back in his car he stares at the stupid-ass inscription in the card and makes some modifications of his own before stuffing it into an equally stupid red envelope and sealing it.  The card stays clutched in his hand while he navigates the drive to the docks.  When he parks the car and gets out, Geoff tucks the envelope and marker in his back pocket.

This time he’s careful to ensure that no one spots him entering the shipping yard.  Hopping the fence is trickier without good ol’ K-Slick boosting his ass over, but Geoff manages.  As he moves silently past the various cargo boxes he slips his pistol free from his belt and holds it at the ready.  Coming back here so soon is stupidity bordering on suicidal, but if it pays off it will be worth the risk ten times over.

He locates the same container he’d robbed several months ago.  This time his entrance is a lot more sophisticated than just busting the lock, which is fortunate since the inside of the container is rigged with a near-invisible trip wire.  More than enough to surprise some hired thug, and it makes sense that Mogar isn’t expecting anything more.  Still, the thought of igniting anything in the vicinity of that much C4 makes Geoff’s palms sweat as he carefully disables it.

Once inside, Geoff stands over this week’s shipment of explosives, waiting to be picked up tomorrow morning.  Just in time for the evening’s excitement.  He reaches back into his pocket and pulls out the red envelope, along with the Sharpie, and scribbles two words across the surface before setting it on top of the C4 and leaving just as carefully as he’d entered:

**TO MOGAR**


	2. Phase Two

When he gets a phone call from his guy down at the docks at four in the goddamned morning, Michael knows his day has somehow already gone to shit.  He’s not supposed to pick up his weekly shipment of C4 for at least another hour, so he knows that whatever’s going on is apparently urgent enough that Miles couldn’t wait for their usual meeting time.  Keeping the phone pressed to his ear with his shoulder as he searches for his pants and shotgun, Michael can feel his temper swiftly curdling from irritation into _fucking pissed_.

“Miles, so help us both, if you let another asshat walk off with my stuff after all that bull you fed me about improving security, I am going to be wearing your skin when I hunt them down,” he snarls into the receiver.  Miles makes some stuttered excuse that Michael ignores as he grabs his car keys and locks his apartment door, but he does admit that it would be better if Michael came sooner rather than later.

“Everything is still here,” Miles promises, “but, uh, it would be great if you hurried so we can deal with this before any of the dock crew clocks in.  You know, just in case you need to… let off some steam.”  Michael knows Miles is referring to his reaction when they’d discovered an entire pallet of C4 missing from his container several months ago, but Michael stands firm in his reasoning that there are plenty of cranes to be had around the shipping yard.  Torching one hadn’t done any real damage.

It’s still dark outside, and Michael has to be careful he doesn’t break his neck while clattering down three flights of stairs to the curb where his truck is parked.  “Christ, it’s cold as fuck Miles,” he accuses, hurrying to unlock the car and climb in.  “Look, I’ll be there in fifteen, meet me by the front entrance.”  He hangs up without waiting for an answer and pulls onto the road.

Miles is dutifully waiting for him when he pulls up in front of the dock storage yard, and Michael waits for him to lean into the security booth and lift the toll gate.  Not wasting time with anything more than a quick wave of greeting as he rolls past, he drives the truck straight to his usual shipping container.  Miles has left the doors wide open, and Michael backs the truck around before he parks and gets out.  Miles walks over to meet him and stands waiting with a hesitant expression on his face.  He follows close behind Michael as he enters the container and looks over the waist-high stack of explosive clay.

“Alright,” Michel says finally after several silent minutes.  “You said everything is accounted for, and for once I agree that you managed to count correctly.  Nothing looks out of place to you?” he confirms as he circles the shipment, eyes searching the packaging for any signs of disturbance or tampering.  He has a deadline coming, and if someone has corrupted this batch when he actually needs it for a job and not just entertainment, Michael might just literally burn Los Santos to the ground.

“Not that I saw when I examined it,” Miles assures him, “although they did dismantle the trip wire I set after that last mishap with the Ballas.”  But his hands are still fidgeting in a way that makes Michael suspicious.  “There’s, um, something else as well.”  He makes a gesture for Michael to follow and leads him back to the security booth.  It’s cramped with both of them inside; Michael’s elbow is jutting into the VCR of the archaic security system.  Miles picks up a red envelope from on top of the tv monitor.  “They left this for you.”

Michael accepts the envelope, then gestures at the security equipment.  “Can you load up the footage from last night?” he asks, and Miles gets to work, although he continues to cast curious glances as Michael rips open a side of the envelope.

Inside is one of the ugliest greeting cards Michael has ever seen, let alone received.  The front has a picture of what looks to have been two bears having a picnic, but their images are almost completely obscured by several crudely sketched dicks.  The inside is similarly haphazard, with the card’s original inscription mutilated both aesthetically and poetically:

_Roses are red,_

_Violets are ~~blue~~ gay (that’s cool though, dicks are great and shit)_

The last two lines have been completely scribbled out and replaced.

_Can the mighty Mogar_

_Come out to play?_

Written underneath is an address near the beach and a time for later this evening.

Michael has no clue what to make of this, aside from the fact that the original card was ugly enough that the profusion of Sharpie penises are somehow an improvement.  There’s no signature, and Michael would bet that he hasn’t met the sender since he normally uses his name once he takes a contract.  So who the hell is this stranger apparently trying to pick a fight?

Miles gives a cough and leans back from the monitor to give Michael a clear view.  “This is from last night,” he says, pressing play, and they watch in silence as a figure enters the frame.

And fuck if Michael doesn’t recognize _that_ mustache in an instant.  The clothes are way different than last time, the sloppy hoodie and Vans traded for a neat black suit that can only be custom-made with the way it hugs Moustache’s ass when he squats, but the swaggering confidence is exactly the same.  He’s also apparently learned a trick or two since last time; it only takes him a minute to disable Miles’ trip wire with a casual ease that makes Michael frown.  He disappears into the container briefly, but soon reemerges and latches the doors shut behind him. 

The crap quality of the tape makes it difficult to be sure, but as far as Michael can tell the thief doesn’t appear to have stolen anything.  That is to say, he hasn’t stolen anything _this_ time.  Michael doesn’t know what to think of Moustache’s reappearance.  Before, Michael had written him off as some Balla lackey, and it hadn’t been worth the trouble of chasing down some thugs who were just following orders.  He had enough experience with gang hierarchy to know that his time was better spent cremating their bosses.  Clearly he needs to reconsider what he’s dealing with.

Michael waves Miles off to start loading the C4 into his hatchback.  Once alone, he pulls out his cellphone and hits the one on his speed dial.  It’s only about half past five, but he knows that Ryan will be awake, and indeed he picks up on the second ring.

“Michael, what the fuck,” he grunts into the phone, his tone a cross between concern and irritation, and whoops maybe Ryan actually had managed to fall asleep last night.

“Good morning to you too sunshine,” Michael answers.  “Time to light up the world with your sparkling personality.”

“Fuck off,” Ryan moans, and his voice is muffled in a way that tells Michael he’s talking into his pillow.

Michael tuts at him.  “If I’m going to get dragged out of bed to the docks at four in the morning, you’re going to share in the misery.”

“Why are you there so early?” Ryan grunts out.  “Isn’t your pickup at six?”

“One of the fucks from a few months ago paid me another visit last night,” Michael sighs.  “It doesn’t look like anything is missing, but he left me a note.”

“Did he threaten you?” Ryan asks, sounding far more awake than before, and his tone is colorless in that way he reserves for when he is being deadly serious. 

Michael considers the card again.  He has no idea what this guy is after, but Michael much prefers a tacky greeting card over a booby trap.  For all the shit he gives Miles, he’d be more than a little pissed if the guy died.  It’s tempting to ask Ryan, whose stealth and tracking abilities far exceed his own, to take an interest in this interloper, but Michael also knows that he would only hear about any potential risk _after_ Ryan put a bullet in him - just to be on the safe side.

He looks back down at the incredibly immature piece of bullshit he’s holding, and feels his mouth quirk at the, ah, _artistic_ pubic hairs accessorizing the card’s phallic decorations.  He’s not so dumb as to blindly trust that Moustache’s intentions are good, but Michael is willing to be patient for once and see how this plays out.

“Michael?” asks Ryan quietly.

“No,” he answers definitively.  “I don’t know if he’s trying to start shit or what, but I don’t think he’s going to be a problem.  At least, he didn’t take a prime opportunity to fuck with anything that I can see.”  Michael is still going to have to check every fucking brick of that C4 just to be sure, which sucks, but somehow he doesn’t think anything will have been tampered with.

“What did he say, exactly?”

“I think… I dunno, it looks like some sort of weird invitation maybe?”  He reads Ryan the card’s contents, then sends him a photo so he can enjoy the full experience.  Ryan is as confused as Michael, and just as entertained.

“My guess is he’s trying to ask you to prom,” Ryan says when he’s done snickering.

“I mean, he definitely seems to get my aesthetic,” Michael laughs.  “This thing is dicks galore.  I guess I’ve got a date tonight.  What color corsage should I bring?”

“Woah, wait a minute.”  The joking tone is gone from Ryan’s voice.  “Michael, I really don’t think you should go alone to some last-minute rendezvous with a strange man who broke into your shipment _again_ to leave you a love letter.”  Michael can actually hear the frown in his voice.

“Chillax, Ry, I won’t be a dumbass about it.  Trust me with this.  Besides, I’m pretty well trained, even if my instructor was sort of a dick.”

“Hey!”  Michael grins at the offense in Ryan’s voice as he switches off the security monitor and walks back outside.  The sun is just rising over the mountains, forcing his eyes into a squint as he looks around for Miles, spotting him collapsed on top of the truck bed, chest heaving from a whole forty minutes of light to moderate exercise.

“Do you want to come by the workshop this afternoon and help me choose an outfit?” Michael asks Ryan, prodding Miles with the butt of his pistol until the man clambers down with a piteous groan.  Ryan _hmm_ s in his ear.

“Yeah sure,” he answers.  “I’ve got someone cooling their heels in a boxcar nearby anyways.  I should check in on them, see if they’re feeling cooperative yet.  D’you want food?”

“Is that not rhetorical?  Of course.  Don’t forget napkins.  And bring the SMG scope I lent you like three months ago, jackass.”  Ryan laughs.

“Will do, see you in a bit.”

\--

It’s always a little tricky getting the C4 safely back to the underground tunnels that house Michael’s workshop, but he manages.  The tunnels are the remnants of Los Santos’ mostly abandoned railway system, so there’s ample room to drive his truck straight in.  He goes slowly in the dark, navigating the various turns and forks as the tracks split off in various directions, until he reaches a service door built into the wall and marked with a spray-painted bear.

Michael parks outside the door and gets started on the unpleasant task of shifting several hundred pounds of clay from the truck bed into his shop.

The workshop is located in what must have once been a maintenance room.  Michael had spent several months tearing out old machinery and restoring air circulation through the rusted vents, but the benefits have been worth the labor.  He doesn’t need to concern himself over the flammability of stone and concrete, and with some modifications the walls are nearly soundproof.  Not that he actually tests anything here, of course, but Michael’s lung capacity when angry is impressive enough without the added amplification that the echoing tunnels provide.

It takes him roughly an hour to unload all the C4, which he stacks in a neat pile against the wall.  The room is brightly lit with fluorescent overheads that he wired himself, and several wooden work tables are covered with his ongoing projects.  Michael pulls a drink out of the small dorm fridge in the corner and surveys his equipment.

It’s difficult to decide how he wants to approach tonight’s event.  One of the major downsides to specializing in explosives is how much preparation everything requires.  Ryan has always been bewildered that Michael could spend so long perfecting a project and then gleefully waste it on something as frivolous (and self-incriminating) as trying to mine the shape of his face into the side of Mount Chiliad. 

For a long moment Michael wonders if maybe he should give Ray a call.  He’s one of the rare people Michael counts as a friend, and he doesn’t suffer from Ryan’s itchy trigger finger.  But then Michael remembers that Ray has loaned out his sniping skills to a guy on the East Coast somewhere.  It would be at least a day before he could get back to Los Santos, and Michael is just too goddamned curious to stand Moustache up.

Instead he turns his attention to the various supplies stacked around his workshop as he contemplates what might come in handy tonight.  Sticky bombs are a must, as well as several grenades.  Then there’s his baby, a lovely new rocket launcher only delivered by his weapons supplier, Brandon, last month.  He’s only recently finished with some alterations that will give it extra spice and desperately wants to take it for a test run.

The distant hum of a motorcycle announces Ryan’s arrival, the sound rising to almost a roar as he gets closer until he cuts the engine.  A moment later he’s entering the room backwards, holding the door with his butt and clutching several takeout bags in one hand and, after a quick glance around to confirm it’s only Michael in the room, pulling his mask off with the other.

“Knock knock,” he says cheekily, stepping over a pile of dismantled handguns that Michael had stripped for parts and putting the food down on a table.  “Sorry I took so long, my boxcar buddy and I were having a chat.”

Michael snorts as he snags an oil cloth and tosses it at him to wipe the paint and condensed sweat off his face, then carries over two stools for them to sit on.  “No worries, I hear it’s difficult for some people to ‘have a chat’ when half their molars are missing.”  Ryan gives a gracious shrug, forgiving the man for the delay, and passes Michael a Styrofoam container containing two thick, buttered waffles.  Michael gives a moan of gratitude that is quickly muffled as he tries to fit an entire waffle into his mouth.

“Nah, once he got into the groove of it, he had a lot to say,” Ryan answers, tucking into his food a little more composedly.  They relax over their meal, chatting and occasionally arguing, particularly when Ryan fails to produce Michael’s missing SMG scope.  Ryan talks about a recent offer that came through their mutual contact Jack, and Michael explains what this week’s C4 will be used for in an upcoming job.  It’s around ten o’clock when they finish.

Ryan gathers all the trash into a bag while Michael begins opening boxes and evaluating their contents.  “So what time is your date picking you up?” Ryan asks.  Michael hefts a crate of flash grenades onto the table with a thud before answering.

“He gave me a meeting place for seven thirty, but I looked up the address on GoogleMaps and it’s just part of the beachfront,” he answers.

“So, a super innocent invitation to come stand out in the open at a specific time.  Sounds legit,” Ryan comments sarcastically.  “I’m sure things will work out, relationships are all about this open communication thing you two’ve got going.”

“Come on Ryan, give me some credit,” Michael gripes.  He slides Ryan several empty pistol clips, and Ryan dutifully begins filling them with bullets from a box sitting nearby.  “I’m going to be a little more suave than that.  Impressions are everything on a first date.”  He pulls out his phone and brings up the map to show Ryan.  “I’m gonna set up shop on the roof of the condos.  It’s the tallest building on the block and has a clear view down the boardwalk.  Then I just wait for my mystery man to show up and decide if I’m going to shoot him or not.”

Ryan seems to approve of this plan, or at least the potential for shooting, because he doesn’t raise any more objections.  Instead they work together to make up a gear bag for Michael to bring with him tonight.  He shows Ryan the modifications he’s done on the rocket launcher and utterly ignores Ryan’s “logic” for why bringing it is unnecessary (“Ryan don’t be a fun-sucker, be a dick-sucker”), lovingly placing it in the bag containing enough weaponry to fell a SWAT team.

Michael’s phone buzzes while he’s strapping on an armored vest to test his range of motion.  In the background Ryan starts singing a Ke$ha song – _tryin’ on all our clothes, clothes, boys blowin’ up our phones, phones_ – until Michael flings an empty clip case at his head and opens a text from Jack, asking if he’s interested in a job out east later this week.  Michael sends back a _maybe_ , wanting to keep his options open if he needs to skip town for a bit after tonight.

Ryan calls a halt to their preparations around one o’clock.  “Michael, unless your date shows up with a small army behind him, I think you’ll have the advantage.  Just stay away from cigarettes.”  Michael looks down at all the violently flammable materials in his bag and winces at the image of some fifty year-old woman’s Marlboro turning him into a human torch.

“Yeah, I’ll be careful of that.  You heading home?” he asks when Ryan reaches for his coat and mask.  Ryan makes a pained face.

“I wish.  Now that boxcar guy is all tuckered out I have to go round up some of his friends.  Listen though.”  He puts a warm hand on the back of Michael’s neck and gives it a squeeze that makes Michael smile.  “Good luck tonight.  And don’t be a moron,” he adds as an afterthought, turning.  He’s already heading for the door, but Michael raises a middle finger to his back for good measure.

\--

That evening, Michael makes it to his lookout spot without any trouble.  Dressing in the baggy clothes of a teenage douchebag keeps his body armor hidden, and by packing his weapons into a bright yellow hiking bag, Michael looks like any other college kid returning home from a trip to the mountains.  The building lobby is empty when he enters, and he takes the elevator to the top floor.  It only takes a minute to pop the lock of the rooftop door, and Michael emerges outside around seven o’clock, half an hour early.

It’s a beautiful warm evening, and the sky is a vivid pink when he pushes the door open.  The perfection of the Los Santos cityscape laid out before him kind of makes Michael want to add some fire to the color scheme, but that will have to wait for another night.  Maybe Ryan will have some free time next week.

Such pleasant thoughts are brought to a grinding halt when Michael spots something fluttering out of the corner of his eye.

A bright red picnic blanket is spread out on the cement near the roof ledge.  The only thing keeping the wind from whipping it away is the huge wicker basket sitting on top.

Michael has a moment of fucking _panic_ when he sees that basket.  There could be any number of unpleasant surprises inside, and his body armor won’t do much to keep his eyeballs from cooking inside his skull.  But even from here he can see that there’s no lid, the basket’s contents left out in the open.   _Moustache hasn’t tried to kill you yet_ , Michael reminds himself, and walks over. 

There isn’t a bomb inside, so Michael counts that as a victory, but otherwise he doesn’t know what to think.  In the basket, half buried in what he realizes are rose petals, sits a walkie-talkie and a pair of digital binoculars.  There’s a note pinned to the handle, and Michael forces himself to reach out and take it.

_Dear Mogar,_

_I figured you’d play hard to get, so I bet on you picking the highest roof.  Or maybe you went to a different spot, in which case you’re dumb. Make sure your radio is on channel six, and keep your eyes on the casino.  The Fake AH Crew is going undercover as fucking Ocean’s Eleven tonight._

_Love,_

_Your Secret Admirer_

_PS Check the beach anyway_

It takes him a minute to recall why the Fake AH Crew sounds familiar to him.  They’re the people who moved into the Davis neighborhoods after Michael buried the Balla boss under four stories of rubble.  It takes another minute for the implications of that to click.

“That son of a _bitch_ ,” Michael breathes furiously.  He decides right then that he won’t shoot Moustache whenever he shows up.  Michael would much prefer the soothing satisfaction of wrapping his hands around the man’s throat.  Snatching up the binoculars, he begins furiously searching the beach for any sign of the soon-to-be-deceased man.

He spends a minute scanning the throngs of people shopping and sunbathing, but doesn’t see anything that catches his eye.  It’s not until he starts to zoom out again to get a better look at the cars passing that he spots something on one of the volleyball courts.  There, in the center of the court, someone has carved a massive heart into the sand and given it a Pringles-style moustache.

“What the fuck,” Michael says aloud, just to solidify the absolute absurdity of what he’s looking at.  Before he can do more than question every life choice he’s ever made up until this point, the radio buzzes to life.  He quickly picks it up, confirms the channel, and cranks the volume.

“Alright assholes, we’re about ten minutes away.  Bravo Two, how are things with the ducklings?”  For no reason more than a flash of gut-deep instinct, Michael is sure that he’s hearing Moustache’s voice for the first time.  He’s not sure why a thirty year-old man sounds like he’s still going through puberty, but it certainly matches the impression Michael’s had of him so far.

“We’re all set, Alpha One,” another voice answers.  “Everyone’s in place.”  This voice sounds young, possibly younger than Michael, but there’s no trace of the nerves Michael would expect of a complete amateur, which is reassuring if he’s about to watch them tackle a casino heist.

“Perfect,” Alpha One cackles.  “Everyone make sure that-”

“Hey Geoff-”

“Bravo Two, who is the boss here?  Oh yeah, I am, so why don’t you take your daily dose of _shut the fuck up_ and let me talk.  Jesus, anyways, we’re coming down the boardwalk now so make sure-”

“But Geo- I mean, Alpha One, whatever, there’s-”

“God damnit Bravo Two, I am gonna make you eat your handheld if you interrupt me one-”

“ _Geoff_ , there’s someone on the roof of the condos,” Bravo Two says sharply.  Michael drops onto his stomach, face pressed against the concrete.  The door back into the building is only forty feet away, he can make it back inside before any of their lookouts get an eye on him.  He gets ready to make break for it, but Geoff intervenes.

“Calm your tits, Bravo Two, he’s my date.  Don’t shoot him, only losers go stag to a heist.  Glad you found your seat, Mogar.” 

Now is as good a time as any for Michael to chime in.  “So am I finally speaking with the moustached fuck who stole my C4, tricked me into doing his dirty work, and then had the nerve to leave me a card with no chocolate?”

“Pleased to meet you,” Geoff confirms.  “At the moment my friends call me Alpha One, but you can call me Alpha if it makes you feel better, baby.”  Michael wants to beat ten shades of humility into this smug jerkoff.

“Yeah, how about no.  Tell you what, until I can find you in person to knock that caterpillar off your face, I’ll just stick to calling you Moustache.”  Whatever their business together, it’s just unprofessional to use personal names in the middle of a job.

“I’ve been called worse,” Geoff says affably.  “I hope you won’t feel too neglected sitting on the sidelines, but I left you some binoculars to help you keep up with the action.  It should be starting very soon.  Bravo Two, we’re here.”

A conspicuously expensive black sports car comes coasting down the boardwalk, chrome detailing glinting in the fading sunset, and pulls to a stop in front of the Von Crastenburg.  Michael quickly adjusts his binoculars for a better look.

The driver is a red-haired woman in a crimson cocktail dress.  Aesthetically the fabric swirling around her legs gives Michael the impression that she’s wearing an expensive-ass dress, but professionally he knows that there could be any combination of weapons concealed beneath it.  Her passenger is what holds his attention. 

Without the grainy distortion of a security camera, Geoff is surprisingly striking for a guy with a handlebar.  The distance between them makes it hard for Michael to distinguish details, but his clothes are crisp, and he walks with the same slouched confidence from the tape.  He wraps an arm around the waist of his partner as she hands the car keys off to a valet, and there’s a strange rigidity to his dinner jacket that suggests a bullet-proof vest.

“Alright kids, get ready,” Geoff murmurs, and Michael can tell from the way he casually ducks his head to wipe at his eye that Geoff must be wearing some sort of microphone under his collar.  He follows the pair on the ground until they disappear into the hotel. 

“Alpha One, the car is on its way around back.”

Michael quickly brings his focus back to the car as a valet gets in and pulls it around to a side road that definitely does not lead to a parking garage.  “Is that one of your guys?” he asks into the radio. 

Bravo Two answers him.  “Yeah, he’s with us.  One of the actual valets _mysteriously_ got food poisoning from his Chinese take-out last night and took a sick day, so we sent his ‘cousin’ to fill in.  He’ll park the car by the loading docks connected to the kitchen.”  Okay, fine, maybe Michael is just a little impressed with the extent of the preparation done for this heist, but fuck if he’s going to say that.

“We’re on the main slots floor,” Geoff says, sparing Michael the need to comment at all, but he does anyways.

“And the eye-in-the-sky isn’t going to be suspicious of the guy whispering at his belly button?” Michael asks sarcastically.

“Please, I’m just a sugar daddy out to watch my baby have a good time, at least until we have a bit of a spat and she storms off to the guest lounge.  Still, sorry for the slow opening number,” Geoff says quietly into his microphone.  The faint _ching_ of slot machines and coins jangling echoes over the connection.  “I promise things will get interesting.  Hopefully in a good way.”

“Jesus Christ dude, I hope that’s not your usual pickup line.”  With the sun almost completely gone, the rooftop where Michael is squatting quickly falls into shadow.  Now that there’s almost no chance of anyone looking up and spotting him, Michael swings his legs over the railing ledge and takes a seat, keeping his bag of supplies close by.  From here the lights of the hotel and boardwalk are easily visible, even pretty.  “What exactly am I here to do?”

“Just enjoy the show,” Geoff purrs.

Things are quiet for the next hour or so.  Geoff makes casual conversation with his date, who he occasionally addresses as Ruby, although for the most part he sticks with ‘babe’.  Every fifteen minutes or so Bravo Two confirms that everything is calm until sometime around nine thirty.

“Alpha One, the guys said that the last truck has left the docks, the whole alley is clear for you.”

Michael sits up from where he’d been laying on the blanket to watch the airplanes pass overhead.  Resettling on his stomach near the roof ledge, he brings the binoculars back up without really knowing where to focus, but knowing something is about to happen.  Through the radio he hears Geoff and his partner get into a short but vicious fight that includes several cheap shots on her part.  A minute or so of silence follows, then Geoff orders a double shot of burbon, presumably standing at the hotel bar.

“Call me old,” Geoff grumbles, “no respect at all,” and Michael doesn’t think he’s just complaining for the sake of their act.  He wants to ask what comes next, but stays silent in case talking would be a distraction.  Then Bravo Two advises his boss to blow his nose and ‘be strong for the sake of the children’ and Geoff tells him to suck a dick.

“So now what?” Michael asks, annoyed at how tense he feels.  As if he has any sort of vested interest in whether or not they all get shot to shit.

“Well now I’m just a drunk guy who’s been ditched by my date, so I think I’ll go buy some chips from the tellers and gamble my troubles away.”  The only noise after that is the ambient sound of a busy casino on a Saturday night until Geoff reaches the teller counter.

“Ma’am,” he says, voice suddenly slurred and even pitchier than before, “I’d like to, ugh, to try my luck.”

“Very good, sir,” comes the carefully toneless voice of the teller.  “The minimum chip value begins at one hundred dollars, how many shall I-”

“Just give me however many this will buy,” Geoff interrupts.

“Sir, this is a coupon to Bean Machine Coffee.”

“Christ, sorry, let me just- ah shit, my hearing aid!”  There’s a great deal of shuffling as Geoff pretends to hunt for his ear piece, and Michael can hear Bravo Two giggling into his headset as Geoff draws out the search.  “Damn that thing, where’d it go?  Ever since that IED injury…”

Michael can hardly believe this bullshit wounded veteran card Geoff is playing, but the teller immediately takes pity on Geoff’s fumbling.  “Please sir, allow me,” Michael hears, and she must have unlocked the door to come around the counter and help him look, because her sudden “Excuse me, _sir_ , you can’t go back there-” is cut off with a thud and all that remains is Geoff’s rapid breathing.

“Bravo One, I’m in the booth.  The teller’s unconscious but security’s probably already on the way, block the door.”

Less than a minute later the feminine voice of Geoff’s date, Bravo One, responds.  “Guest lounge is secure, it’s nearly empty and no one’s going anywhere, you can open the teller door.”  The next few minutes are tensely silent as the two work quickly to clear out the teller booth, not speaking except for some occasional swearing.  Michael isn’t sure what they’re using to carry the money, but he doesn’t ask.

A sudden, vehement _fuck_ from Geoff startles him after the quiet.  “Bravo Two, security is at the – scratch that, they are practically _through_ the door, we are getting the fuck out.  Tell the gunners to get ready to cover us.”  Bravo Two starts relaying the message, and Michael can hear Geoff panting and the sounds of heavy footfalls.  “We’re outside!”  Geoff says, and his words are immediately followed by the rev of a car engine.

A moment later Geoff’s car comes flying out of the alley.  His date is leaning out the passenger window and shooting at pursuing security, but the unrelenting hail of returning fire quickly forces her to pull back.  Bravo Two says something that Michael misses, but suddenly gunfire aimed at hotel security comes from multiple directions.  The guards quickly fall back, and Michael is not impressed.  If he’d known they’d be such pussies he would have tried robbing a casino himself.

By the sound of it, Geoff is equally scornful.  “What a bunch of cocksuckers,” he laughs gleefully.  “I can’t believe- oh fuck.”  Michael doesn’t need to ask what’s wrong.  In the dark he can see the flashing lights of a half dozen LSPD squad cars barreling towards the hotel.  Geoff throws the car into reverse and slides into a turn, only to narrowly miss colliding with a police van that comes skidding around the corner behind him.  Bravo Two orders more covering fire, but the lack of damage suggests the van’s glass is bulletproof.

“Bravo Two, why is the entirety of the LSPD suddenly up my ass?” Geoff bellows furiously.  Through his binoculars Michael can see him trying to wedge past the van, but his way is blocked by a concrete divider.  “I have nowhere to fucking go!”

The truth of this is emphasized as the other squad cars converge on the hotel.  They screech to a stop a few hundred feet away from Geoff and park sideways to block the lanes.  Michael spots another unpleasant surprise.

“Uh, Alpha One,” he says into the radio, “the cops are all holding automatics.”

The answering _fuck_ is echoed by several people, and Michael doesn’t need anyone to tell him that this is not a part of the plan.  Bravo Two’s voice crackles over the radio, high and panicked.

“Fuck!  Oh, fuck me Geoff, I don’t think-”

“Bravo Two, we need out of here before the choppers show up, so calm the fuck down and tell me where to drive!” Geoff barks out.  But Michael can see what must be all too obvious to Bravo Two: there is no way out.  The whole street is a tangled snarl of weekend traffic and police.  Geoff’s car is probably fast as hell, but there isn’t anywhere with enough room to gather the momentum to ram his way through.  He simply doesn’t have the firepower.

But Michael does.

He drops to his knees and rips open his yellow bag, shouting into the radio as he searches.  “Alpha One, listen to me.  On the count of three, start driving as fast as you can towards the cruisers.  Don’t slow down, and _don’t swerve_.”

To his credit, Geoff doesn’t question the order.  He gives up trying to ram the van out of the way and instead turns suddenly, aligning his car perpendicularly to the wall of police blocking their escape.

Michael finally finds what he was looking for and stands to get a clear view of the street.  He can’t believe he’s about to do this.  He _shouldn’t_ be doing this, Ryan is going to fucking strangle Michael for involving himself with a crew he’s barely heard of, but Michael doesn’t hesitate.  “One.”  He brings his rocket launcher up to rest on his shoulder and takes careful aim.  “Two.”  Sights are aligned, and he leans forward in anticipation of the kickback.  “Three,” he exhales as he pulls the trigger.

The force of the rocket jerks his shoulder but his aim is spot on.  There’s a high, almost inaudible whistle that’s cut short by the much louder sound of several police cars exploding, sirens wailing as the force of the detonation blasts several cruisers off the road.  He can see bystanders fleeing as one goes rolling across the beach.

Geoff follows Michael’s instructions and drives blindly straight into the thick black smoke roiling across the road without waiting for it to clear.  For a brief second, Michael wonders if he messed up, that there won’t be enough of a gap for the car and instead they’ll collide head-on.  But the very next moment the smoke dissipates as the car screams through the opening left by his rocket and, before the LSPD can collect themselves, goes zipping down the highway into the distance, agilely weaving through traffic.  Michael waits just long enough for the glow of the headlights to disappear, then gets to work on packing up and getting the hell out of there.

He clips the radio onto his hip then grabs his bag and hurries inside, mashing the elevator button when he reaches it.  Once inside the lift and on his way down, Michael turns up the volume of the radio and listens to the chatter.  The yet-unidentified Bravo Two is reporting that all their gunners are on the way to pre-arranged hideouts to wait out the worst of the police response.  He’s then interrupted by a female voice that Michael hasn’t heard before.

“Bravo Two, shut up for a bit.  This is Bravo One, is Mogar still listening?”  The elevator dings and opens on the first floor.  Michael steps out and immediately walks into the smoking lounge across the hall.  The streets will be blocked by now, and he’s not going to get far in his Adder without calling attention to himself.  Better to wait things out. Once he’s settled into a chair he gets his phone out and pretends to be swiping through his email, hiding the radio in his jacket before answering.

“Sort of, it’s a little difficult to hear over the clusterfuck you guys left behind you,” Michael answers.  From his position he has a clear view of the lobby entrance and the street.  Police are running up and down the sidewalk, and sirens announce the arrival of a firetruck.

“Yeah, I don’t think this was exactly the dazzling performance we intended.  The boss is a little busy mowing down pedestrians right now, but we want to say thanks.  Why don’t you meet us for breakfast?”

\--

The diner Geoff has selected for their high-stakes criminal tete-a-tete is a bit of dump for someone who has just successfully robbed one of Los Santos' most exclusive casinos.  Michael hopes he's not about to find out that they grabbed bags of slot coins instead of the cash.  It's hard to gauge how seriously he should take Geoff and his crew; Michael can't quite wrap his mind around a guy who puts such extensive planning into his jobs and then invites a stranger with a grudge against him to sit in.

The restaurant is doing a respectable business for a Saturday morning.  The bar is crowded with truckers half-drowning themselves in coffee, and Michael can spot a family or two taking a break from a roadtrip and trying to keep their kids in line.  Geoff is sitting alone by the far wall at a booth near the window.  The booth behind him is occupied by two elderly ladies having a conversation on repeat and fussing with their hearing aids, while in front is a college kid passed out over her books.  After doubling checking that there doesn’t appear to be anyone keeping a lookout for him, Michael walks over.

“Hey there Geoff.”

Geoff looks up, his expression momentarily surprised at the use of his name, but then rolls his eyes.

“Caleb has the biggest goddamn mouth of anyone I’ve ever met, I swear to god,” he complains, gesturing for Michael to take the empty booth across from him.  Michael sits, and Geoff pushes over a plate of strawberry-covered waffles.  “I figured if you don’t like waffles we can’t have much to say to each other, so…”

Michael eagerly accepts the plate.  No matter how much money he makes, free food never loses its appeal.  Geoff smiles slightly and flexes the grip on his coffee mug as Michael attacks his meal.

“Where’s your gal pal?” Michael asks through a mouth of waffle.

“Hey there hotcakes,” comes a voice in his ear, and Michael damn near swallows his fork.  The college kid who’d been slumped over her textbooks is peering at him over the back of the booth seat.  This is the first time he’s seen her face up close, and he hadn’t connected her as Geoff’s partner with her bright red hair dyed a dark brown.  But now that he had the chance to really look at her…

“Lindsay?” he asks tentatively, struggling to remember the face of the woman he’d periodically come across in the midst of various jobs.  Usually when they’d been working for the same guy, but there was also the time she’d blown up a gas tanker he’d been about to steal.  He’d spent two months waiting for his hairline to grow back in.  Lindsay seems to be thinking along the same lines.

“I see your hair came back.  I’m glad, you don’t really have the face to pull off Geoff’s mid-life crisis look.”  With a quick smirk at her boss’s affronted face, she turns back around and resumes her slumped posture.  Michael glances into the backpack by her side and spots the glint of a carbine rifle.  Well then.

Geoff doesn’t seem surprised by the revelation that they know each other, and Michael guesses she tipped him off ahead of time.  Her presence does just a tiny bit to reassure Michael.  Not because she’d back him up if things got ugly, he knows that gun is for Geoff’s protection, not his, but Michael also knows that if Geoff and his crew were a sinking ship, Lindsay wouldn’t be on it.

“I’ll be honest, I hadn’t really intended for any audience participation, but you definitely saved my ass.  And singed my eyebrows,” Geoff added, waggling them as he spoke, and indeed Michael can detect a bit of charring.  He secretly hopes that he’d have another chance to look Lindsay in the face so he can examine her eyebrows as well, but he shrugs off Geoff’s gratitude.

“Up until that last bit things were pretty fucking spiffy, Geoffrey.  Although the bit where you _robbed a casino_ was a little harebrained.”  Geoff’s answering laugh has no business being so carefree.  “And what was that shit with your _hearing aid_ ,” Michael continues, beginning to laugh himself and suddenly unable to stop while Geoff fakes a snooty expression.  “And you didn’t even have any fucking _money_ , you dumbfuck!”  Geoff maintains a look that conveys how very plebian he finds Michael and has to maintain it for a minute or two until the giggles die away.  Then his bright blue eyes fix Michael with a serious gaze.

“This is for you.”  Michael feels something brush his leg and looks under the table.  A backpack similar to Lindsay’s is sitting on the floor between them.  Michael uses his feet to pull it closer and unzips the top.  It’s filled with thick rolls of cash, and Michael can feel his hands start to sweat; he would guestimate that there’s about two million dollars in front of him.  He looks up quickly at Geoff, who is watching him with a weirdly eager face, as if enjoying Michael’s surprise.

“What the hell is this?” he asks, because you don’t need to be a criminal to know that smart people are suspicious of free money in any amount, let alone this ridiculousness.

“The majority of the casino’s money is kept in a vault, but I decided to leave that to classier criminals than us.  If a job doesn’t end in a shootout then what’s the point?”  Geoff’s tone says he’s joking, but Michael wouldn’t be surprised if that was an actual box on the man’s to-do list when planning a heist.  “We did manage a respectable twenty million from the teller booth thanks to all the tourists coming out to gamble on a Friday night.”

Michael looks back at the bag again.  Geoff is giving him a very generous ten percent cut of a heist he wasn’t supposed to be involved in.  “I don’t understand why you’re giving me this,” he says finally.  Geoff takes a sip of coffee, eyes never leaving Michael’s face.

“Look, kid – er, Mogar,” he corrects when Michael bristles, “You did us a favor last night.  I know how Los Santos works, and no one does anyone a favor unless they know it’s going to benefit them.  As far as I can tell, unless it was so you could continue to have the pleasure of seeing my handsome face around, you didn’t have that guarantee.  I want to make the Fake AH Crew worth your while.”

For the first time, Michael starts to feel a little uncomfortable.

“If this is a recruitment offer, my answer is no,” he says firmly.  Geoff’s face falls a little bit, but he doesn’t seem offended.

“I mean, it would be great to have you, but I wasn’t really expecting a commitment after one night,” he sighs, the grin already creeping back and laying extra cheese on the innuendo.  “But what about coming on temporarily, as a sort of trial basis?  I’ll contract you one job at a time, and you can pass on anything you’re not interested in.”

Michael returns to his plate of waffles while he considers the offer.  It wouldn’t be so different from the work he normally does, and it might be nice to have the consistency of working for the same guy for a while.  Geoff is clearly trying to not spook him by giving him an opt-out whenever he needs it, which Michael appreciates.

Setting down his fork and wiping his face, Michael twists around and plucks a pen off Lindsay’s table before grabbing a clean napkin.  He jots down his work number and hands it to Geoff, who folds it carefully and puts it in his pocket.  Geoff holds out a hand, and Michael grasps it briefly.  Then he stands, making sure to cuff Lindsay over the head with his bag of money when he hefts it onto his shoulder, and shoots a grin at Geoff.

“Give me a call when you’ve got something lined up, boss.  And call me Michael.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I tried to be smart and research aspects of this hiest, and now my search history is probably going to get me arrested. Also in the spirit of research, at one point I googled how much money casinos keep on site to calculate Michael's cut and found a quote from Ocean's Eleven. In order to make sure I wasn't accidentally ripping off the movie (I'd only seen it once a long time ago), I rewatched Ocean's Eleven and all of its sequels. I believe in being thorough, which I why I'm not posting this until 1 am.
> 
> I hope everyone enjoyed reading from Michael's POV and finally getting to see Ryan, I was certainly excited to finally write him in. Next chapter, Ryan meets Geoff :O
> 
> Thanks for reading, please leave a kudo or comment if you feel inclined!


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